


Windswept

by Cicerothewriter



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Bitchiness, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:10:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicerothewriter/pseuds/Cicerothewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On holiday, Hastings gets fed up with Poirot, and goes for a walk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Windswept

**Author's Note:**

> Series: Same universe as my other Poirot stories. I haven't decided if it is after WWII or before. I also have no idea where Freddie is.
> 
> Note: I don't think I write enough "Poirot in a snit". This is an attempt to remedy that. Also inspired by a photograph of Nice.

In an effort to improve Poirot's health, we left London for Nice as the winter weather set in. Despite the beauty of Nice and the surrounding area, Poirot was in a terrible mood. He complained frequently of the lack of mental stimuli and of the food and the hotel and anything else he could think of.

I was as patient as I could be with him, but after his final complaint that I proved a less than engaging companion, I stormed out of the apartment. I knew he regretted his words as soon as he spoke, but I needed the time away from him. This winter had been exceptionally challenging, and although I loved Poirot dearly, I felt helpless as to his recent tempers.

I found myself out on the beach without an umbrella or my scarf, and it was cold. However, I was determined not to return to the hotel until I had given myself time to calm down.

The wind had picked up considerably along the beach, and while it was not raining, the spray from the waves made it seem as though it was raining. What had once been a beautiful, peaceful scene was now filled with anger and power, and I shivered more at the sight than at the chilly rain.

There were a few others on the beach, most intent upon returning home and not for a casual stroll. After a few minutes, I was contemplating a return at least to the hotel restaurant when my hat was torn from my head by a particularly wicked gust. I chased it for several feet, but was only able to grab it when it landed in a puddle of dirty water.

I sighed and held it in my hand, unwilling to put a wet and filthy hat back on my head. My neatly combed hair was by now completely uncontrolled, and I must have looked quite wild upon my return to the hotel. As I could not sit in the hotel restaurant looking as I did, I reluctantly decided to return to my room.

I opened the door and stepped in; Poirot's eyes widened when he looked at me, but my expression must have been forbidding because he said nothing. I removed my overcoat and hat in a disgruntled manner, and then took myself to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. If I could not get peace outside, I would jolly well find it in a warm bath.

I had just removed my undershirt when I heard a knock on the door. I was determined to ignore it, but then I heard it again and Poirot murmur my name.

"Yes?" I said, determined to stand my ground.

I heard Poirot heave a great sigh, and I almost felt sorry for him. I did not expect an apology from him, and so his words were a great shock to me. "I misspoke, _mon ami_."

As much as an apology as I would ever receive, I expect. I reluctantly unlocked and opened the bathroom door. Poirot gave me a wary look, and then stepped in, shutting the door behind him.

I was sticky and gritty from the wind outside, and the care I took with my hair had been completely undone. My hair has a determined curl to it – the bane of my existence as a young boy – and I generally took great pains as an adult to minimize its presence. I looked into the mirror and winced.

"I dare say you did, Poirot," I replied, snatching the comb from the sink and attempting to mitigate the damage.

Poirot's lips twitched. I gazed at him with resentment as he tried not to laugh. His expression was no longer frustrated but fond, and I resolutely ignored him as I struggled with a stubborn tangle.

"You should have worn a hat, _mon ami_ ," he said, taking the comb from me and beginning effortlessly to sort through the tangles.

"I was wearing a hat," I replied sharply, shoving my hands into my pockets.

"And?"

"It blew away into a puddle," I responded reluctantly.

Poirot made a face of distaste, and said, "Hastings, you should be more careful with your clothes."

I disliked being lectured as if I were a child, and I said as much. We were silent for a time, and the soothing strokes of the comb through my hair eased some of my distress. It was difficult to remain angry when being cared for so tenderly.

When Poirot was satisfied, he put down the comb and then began to draw my bath. He motioned that I should continue to undress, and I did so. I watched Poirot fuss with the handles and sprinkle in the scented salts like a chef before his pots.

Once I had stripped and Poirot declared the bathwater to be of an appropriate temperature and with a suitable amount of scent, I stepped in, letting the heat soothe my chilled bones. Poirot sat in a chair next to me, and as he seemed disinclined to move, I let him be.

I was beginning to feel more myself, and so I opened my eyes to see if Poirot was still sitting next to me. He was, but his mind was obviously elsewhere. I was startled by the despondence I saw in his eyes, and I reached one wet hand out to touch his.

"Poirot?" I said, not bothering to hide the worry I felt.

Poirot tried to smile at me, but gave up with a sigh. "I seem to be ever angry, _mon ami_ , and I dislike that I take out that anger on the one who brings me the most joy."

"Dear old thing," I said, taking his hand to my lips and kissing it gently. "You know that I shall always forgive you. You are my weakness."

Poirot's lips twitched at that, and he squeezed my hand gently. "You are too good to me."

I rested my cheek against his hand for a moment, then released it. "What has you so discouraged, Hercule?" I rarely addressed him by his given name first, and so he knew that I meant it.

"You are aware that I went to see my doctor before our departure?" Poirot asked.

I nodded, really unable to forget because Poirot kept mentioning his appointment. "You said nothing to me once you returned home, and so I thought no more about it." I wondered what little thing the doctor mentioned that had Poirot in such a worry, but what Poirot said next froze my blood.

"He said that I had a weakened heart, _mon chou_ , and that I should consider retiring."

"But…" I said, hoping that this was one of Poirot's exaggerations, "surely he meant that you are getting older and nothing more."

Poirot shook his head, and said, "The disease of the heart occurs in my family. My father was a year younger than I am when he died."

"Poirot!" I cried. "Why didn't you tell me this sooner? Obviously it has been preying on your mind."

Poirot seemed at a genuine loss for words, and seeing this loss made his plight all too real. " _Mon ami_ ," he said, drifting off.

I knelt in the bathtub, and griped him tightly in a full embrace. He protested that I was dampening his clothes, and I said firmly, "Good lord, Poirot. Forget about your damned clothes!"

Despite his protestations, Poirot clung to me as tightly as I to him. I could feel his heart beating – thankfully! – against mine, and I held him tighter.

"What else can be done?" I asked him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Poirot said, his sigh evident that he felt he was being put upon unduly, "The doctor said that I must modify my diet, make time for the relaxation, lose weight, and... and quit smoking."

"Quit smoking?" I said. "Is that the cause of your irritation?"

He sighed, and said, "I believe so."

I smiled a bit, and leaned forward to give him a slow, searching kiss. The stress of the past few weeks had temporarily cooled my adore, but now I felt it return in full. I needed to show Poirot how much I loved him, and I needed him to show me that he still felt the same way.

"You've been successful at quitting smoking, yes?" I said playfully.

Poirot kissed me again, and his kiss nearly brought me to my knees. "Poirot will not let the tobacco rule him," he replied, his hands stroking down my naked hips.

"And I can provide some exercise, if you wish," I replied, pressing my lips very lightly to his.

"I approve of the exercise I share with you, _mon ami_." He kissed me again, and then said, "Now finish your bath. I do not want you to catch the cold."

I settled back down, my body now quite sensitive. "Your clothes are wet, love," I said playfully. "Perhaps you should undress."

"I did not make them so," Poirot said, smoothing down his damp waistcoat. I could see from his quickened breath and other signs that he was not unaffected.

"It is your fault, you know," I replied. I dunked my head down beneath the water, and when I rose, I said, "You remember last time you supervised my bath."

During an investigation last year, I had been knocked down a flight of stairs by the suspect. Fortunately I took him with me, thus effectively capturing him. However, it had been a nasty tumble, and I had been sore for weeks afterward. Poirot had been gratifyingly concerned, perhaps even a little too concerned, and had treated me with such gentleness that I had longed for rough pleasure. My patience came to an end when he stood over me in the bath and offered to wash my back.

My wicked smile must have alerted him to my thoughts because he stepped back a bit, and said, "I remember. Such a shameless waste of the trousers."

I laughed, and Poirot merely shook his head. "I shall order for us some dinner."

With his head held high, he left me to my bath.


End file.
